He looks tough, rough, all edges and bones. He is the epitome of someone who lives on the streets. He is tall and skinny and his hair is dyed to a crazy concoction of colors that you can never name. His eyes are deep and narrow, and their hue is either a light blue like the sky or a cold gray. You never actually make it out though, because you never actually get to look at him in the eyes. His skin isn't what people normally call pallid, but it isn't tanned or dark, either. When he walks or stands up, he looks like a skeleton coming to life, long limbs and bones jutting out of his skin like they're going to tear it apart. He eats a lot though, and he moves a lot, too. That's probably why he never gains more weight, even though you really want him to. You never say it to him. You never say anything to him because it's awkward between you two. You don't even know what to say when you come near him, and you think he probably doesn't like you. Maybe he hates you and you'll never know, because between all the sharp angles is a mushy marshmallow. You figure he hates you, because you make him feel weird and uncomfortable. You know you'll never hear him say it because he's too nice to put his hatred into words, unlike you.

He has three good friends, you think. One is a prodigy kid of some sort. Another is, well, all of them are good people. They're nice to you, too, but you can't get rid of the bad thoughts about them because you're not a good person and your mind is filled with terrible stuff and you feel bad because they don't deserve it. You have friends, too, at least that's what you'll call them until you have a more suitable noun to describe them. They're also good people, and maybe the only despicable one is you because you think badly of others.

His two other friends are girls. They're nice to you, because that's probably all they will ever be to anyone. One of them has been with him for quite a while. She has a funny accent, though you will never tell her that you judge her. She is so nice to you that you feel bad for not feeling bad about judging her. The other one is the one he used to like. She is pretty, one of the most beautiful girls you've ever seen. She is perky enough not to sense your true nature, but mature enough not to be considered childish. Her singing voice is among some the most powerful ones you've ever heard, and you clearly understand why he likes her. You would have liked her, too, but your infatuation always stops you from completely making friends with her. Maybe when your feelings for him end, you will be good friends with her. Maybe.

You have no idea when your infatuation has begun, and no idea what you even like about him, but you like him. A lot. You can feel your pulse beating faster and something pumping through your arteries every time you're near him. He's the catalyst to the violent reactions happening inside of you, he's the "something" that rushes from the top of your head to the tip of your toes every time you catch sight of those eyes which color you still don't know. There is electricity running through you when you see his slim and bony fingers move swiftly through the piano, playing the melody that you can't quite find the name to. You were shocked still, because you couldn't believe he knows how to play the instrument, but you get used to it, though you will still feel that same ray of lightning striking you whenever you see him sitting on the chair in front of the piano.

He knows your name and who you are. He knows you like him, probably because he gets the hints when your voice stutters and you're at a loss for words. You ask one of your friends to take photos of him because you want to admire him in secret, because crushes are just meant to be looked at from afar like artifacts in a museum, but he also knows that. He thinks you're creepy and he's scared of you because who wouldn't think that way in a situation like this, but you will never hear him say it to your face because he's too nice. He's not you and he's afraid of hurting people's feelings because he is just that, edges and bones but really soft inside.

You're rough, too, but not in your looks. You seem too old for your age, and people often use the wrong pronoun when they talk about you. You look like a fluffy panda in the zoo with dark circles under your eyes and not much of an angular physique. It makes you look cute, but "cute" hides a lot of things. You know you're fueled by the desire to hurt, and you know you can't stop those twisted thoughts inside your head. That, he doesn't know about you, but you realize that he will find out some day, because maybe him thinking that you're creepy isn't enough, because he'll have to find out about it anyway. You're not like him, you know that, and he knows that. You're not bony and soft inside. You're the opposite. You wonder what he is going to think of you if he actually discovers what is going on inside your mind. You're scared of scaring him, and you're scared of hurting him, and they're probably the only things you will be scared of as long as you like him.

Sometimes, you ask yourself if girls have to be weak for the opposite gender to fall for them, because you don't want to show your weaknesses. You hate being taken advantage of. You think maybe if you show a little of that nonexistent soft side he will fall for you, but you don't do it, because it's stupid. Instead, you reveal some of that roughness inside of you, and that's also stupid, because it makes people wonder why the hell you even need someone if you're already independent. Maybe you're not entirely rough inside after all, but you're not sure. You hate uncertainty, but you cope with it, just like how you ask that friend of yours to tell him that you are even more confused than he is about your own emotions. You think he doesn't like that answer, but he says it's fine. You think he's lying, because he's so nice that even if he isn't satisfied with the answer, he won't say it. He can't voice his hatred into swears like you because he isn't raised to do so. He probably hates you for swearing, because everyone seems to hate you for that.

You don't want to care, and you pretend not to care. About him, that is. Maybe if you don't accidentally glance pass his blue/gray eyes, you won't think about him, and maybe if you don't find reasons to go near him, you won't be half as desperate. But to tell yourself you can't be blamed because no one actually knows anything about emotions, and the brain looking at a brain is just the brain studying itself, and maybe nothing actually exists, and maybe we're just living in the fantasies created by our own minds, and therefore nothing matters. And then you contemplate his eye color, the beautiful mixture of the sky in a summer day and the moon's silver surface, and things start mattering again, because you can feel the metaphorical butterflies fluttering in your stomach and your lungs and your heart and every organ possible.

And then you remember those times when he actually tries to talk to you because he's too nice and he wants to fix something that's already broken into too many pieces. You recall how you thought he was talking to someone else and stayed silent. You don't feel guilty even though you're supposed to, and that thought gives you the guilt, and you bundle the guilt inside with your other emotions until they're compressed into a block of rough edges and angles, something hard and sharp. You tell yourself to shut up, and that this is not something to whine about. You can't be sad because someone had it worse than you, just like how you're not supposed to be happy because someone else had it better. You have to keep a neutral face, and the sight of him ruins your will. You choke on your words and have no idea what to say because you never prepare your lines before saying them. You end up creeping him out even more because apparently that's what you do now.

Maybe you will one day look back and think about how dumb you are right now. Maybe one day you will wish you could have changed what you said into something funny and sarcastic, like you even have a sense of humor. Maybe one day, you will wish you didn't say anything at all, keep being the background noise instead of the main disturbance, sparing him one more thing to think about. You will know he's busy enough and he doesn't need to care about your bullshit, it's just that he's too nice to shove you away like those previous people. Maybe he knows how confused you are with your emotions, and is trying to do what he thinks will help, but you're never sure. You struggle with uncertainty, and that's why you hate it. Maybe all you will ever think about are these dramatic self-loathing thoughts, and maybe, when you grow up, you will find out that you're just shielding your insides with rough edges and poisoned thorns. Maybe you will find out that you're actually more similar to him than you think, because as human beings, you both just crave affection.

And maybe, if you keep your thoughts sealed tight enough, you will gain back your rough inside.

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